Homo Homini Lupus
by PhantomInspector
Summary: AU, though stays relatively true to events of the book. "Give a human face to this wolf's son and you will have Javert." - now taken to the literal level. Ch. 6: Mother and son go on a long trip and have some time to bond. R&R, please.
1. Chapter 1

In the spirit of Halloween, I decided to post my side-story (or prequel story . . . I guess?) to a series I may or may not post on here in the future. Heck, most of it still needs to be written. You needn't know the other story to understand this one, except for the main premise. Which you'll get, don't worry. It's been done before.

This will probably be a series of vignettes with a loose storyline attached. There are time jumps, hence the location and date at the beginning. Hope it's not terribly confusing.

Title roughly translates to "man is a wolf to [his fellow] man" or "man is man's wolf". Hugo references it in another novel, _The Man Who Laughs_, in which a wolf-dog is named Homo. Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Enjoy.

* * *

_Toulon, 1796_

The heat of the day was murderous, as usual. For someone who was not yet accustomed to the starch-stiff collars of the guard uniforms, the temperature proved particularly intolerable.

A young guard who had been working in the galleys and quarries for two years still felt that instinctive need to tug at his collar. Each time the impulse came, his conscious would gave it a reprimanding slap. _No, _it said, almost mockingly. _Bad boy_.

He sighed and continued to chastise himself. He was well acquainted with the heat of the south, so the addition of a collar should not have been an exceptional burden. It was not simply the collar, though. His entire uniform was a confining but necessary oppression to his body. Despite every instinct that raged against it, he would not voice complaint and would fight every urge to do so. He would become used to it. Eventually.

Another sigh.

"What's the matter with you?" inquired Favreau, one of his colleagues, beside him. "A new batch of convicts not exciting enough for you?"

"Is there anything special about it?" he retorted.

"In this place, you take what you can get." Favreau titled his hat back to give his forehead some air. "So why all the sighing?"

"Just the heat."

"Bouchard giving you a hard time?"

"No."

"Got a girl on your mind?"

He was tempted to laugh. "Not quite."

Favreau pulled his hat back down. "Well fine, then. I haven't all day to ask you questions."

"Like I said, it's just the heat."

"Sure it is."

The two young men resumed their previous bout of silence as they and a few more guards awaited the arrival of the cart. The stream of incoming criminals never ceased, the guard thought with increasing morosity. If they weren't newcomers, they were returned horses. The cycle of crime and conviction was as tiresome as the rotation of the wheels that brought the prisoners. The turning of wheels provoked mixed feelings in him to begin with. Someone out of mild curiosity once asked him if he preferred ships to carriages; he said he might except the rocking on the swells tested his balance far too much.

In truth, walking on a ship might not have been problematic if he were allowed to walk on all fours. But that was a moot point.

The cart with its reluctant passengers finally arrived. The young man straightened himself as he assisted the older guards in unloading the chained convicts one by one. It helped to distract him from the heat and granted him the chance to quickly examine and capture their faces. He would undoubtedly see these faces numerous times, and it did no harm to memorize them now and be able to identify any of them later if they decided to cause trouble. It was a small effort that had already put him on good terms with his superiors. Bouchard was an exception, although he wasn't sure he could really call the violent-tempered deputy warden his superior yet. Bouchard monitored the general conduct of a select group of guards while he was permitted to strike out at clumsy prisoners with a whip or bludgeon. The guard couldn't pick and choose the figures of authority here, but he found consolation in that Bouchard did have his own superiors to whom he must answer.

While each convict was individual in physical appearance, he wore the same sullen expression as his soon-to-be fellow inmates. Most kept their eyes on the ground. A few gave their captors either dark or fearful looks. The ones who looked boldly at the guards were mostly likely the ones returning to imprisonment. There were on occasion a few criminals who practically enjoyed their return, like homeward bound war heroes. These cretins left a disgusting taste in the young guard's eyes.

Then there were the complete contrasts, the sorriest souls of the lot. They would be the ones ready to cry their eyes out at the sight of their chains and cells. Although he could not bring himself to feel very sorry for them, the guard momentarily considered how the other prisoners would view these men, and to what lengths they might take advantage of their apparent vulnerability.

But it was not his place to worry about what _would_ happen. He concerned himself with what _did_ happen, and so such matters could only be handled when they were a present issue. There were simply too many prisoners in which to investment concern. And to what point did they really deserve it?

It did not take long for him to identify the weeper. He was a man in his prime, nearly thirty, with dark hair and broad shoulders, which was partly the reason the guard was surprised by his behavior. After escorting the group to the offices where the prisoners received their tunics, the guard gave the prisoners another quick examination. Suddenly, the broad-shouldered man started weeping. Not merely sniffling or shedding quiet tears, but sobbing and balling. This gained the attention of not only the guard, but every bloody person in the room. No one could stand or sit comfortably as the man carried on. Good Lord, had the man no dignity?

"Shut up!" hissed the con next to him, giving him a shove.

"Silence, both of you!" snapped Baudin, one of the older guards.

The man calmed down a bit, but his frame still shuddered from silent, involuntary sobs. The display had been unnecessarily melodramatic, and the guard could only wonder what comfort a man could gain from tears.

_You wouldn't know, would you?_ said an accusing voice in his head. _It's not as if you can shed tears. Not like _they_ can._

Like the brute on the chain, he told the voice to shut up.

The guard returned to his normal duties in the quarries, which thankfully became more bearable as the day aged and the sun receded toward the horizon. His shift was nearly at an end when the chief warden's secretary, M. Morin, informed him that M. Thierry wanted to speak with him before leaving.

The guard conceded to the request and waited in the foyer outside the warden's office. Across the room sat a gentleman who also apparently had an appointment with the warden. At his feet lay a leashed basset hound. As soon as the guard entered the room, the dog's head popped up and refused to go back down. He tried to seem uninterested and relaxed, but the dog refused to change its attitude. He looked around at the dull green and beige wallpaper, the portrait of _ over the mantelpiece, the white-washed ceiling, his boots – anything but the dog and its master.

Five minutes passed like this. Ten. Fifteen. The guard snuck a glance at the dog. It stared at him warningly. This was getting ridiculous.

_That's it!_ He directed his full gaze at the squat canine. The dog not only continued to stare back; it growled.

"Gaston!" chided the gentleman, only now noticing the dog's tense form.

The dog did not retract its gaze. The guard sneered. _You're not worth my concern. Stop making a fool of yourself_.

The dog growled again.

"Gaston!" The gentleman looked at the young man. "Forgive him. I don't think he's well."

"It's nothing," said the guard.

The dog barked. Or at least it sounded like a bark to its master. To the guard it said, "Don't dare speak to my master!"

The gentleman chided him again and tugged on the leash. The dog went quiet but looked more than dissatisfied. The guard smirked.

The animosity did not abate until the gentleman went into the warden's office, dog in tow, then returned and departed. Before leaving, though, he gave the young man another apologetic look. "He's usually not like this."

"I suppose I'm not a dog person," replied the guard with a shrug.

The gentleman nodded. "Have a good evening."

The guard was called into the office. "I apologize for the delay," remarked Thierry as he sat behind his desk. "Chaboillet's little beast wouldn't stop tugging at its leash." He chuckled and motioned for the guard to sit.

"It was no trouble, sir," he replied, maintaining all decorum. "You wished to speak to me?"

"Yes. It will only take a moment."

"I am in no hurry."

To this Thierry gave him a knowing grin. "That's the only trouble with you, Javier. You're not like other young men who always have places to go. As helpful as that is to me and to your duties, it might do you some service to enjoy life a little more."

The creeping desire to frankly respond made the young guard dumb for a moment. "Thank you, sir, but I am content with my habits."

"There's content, and then there's _fulfilled_." The warden sighed. "My boy, don't do this job forever. It will only wear you down to a well-polished piece of coal. Believe me."

He felt a little jolt of uneasiness, but remained placid. "Yes, sir."

"Now, as to the matter I wished to address . . . I think I may assume that your evenings are quite open?"

The guard's forehead furrowed a little. "For the most part, yes."

"You are free to say no, Javier, but I would like you to take on one or two of the night shifts. With the retirement of a few of our senior wardens, we need to shift schedules. And I also think your diligence and work ethic deserve some kind of reward."

_By making me work more?_ "I understand, sir."

"You may even – this is no guarantee – but you may even be promoted to assistant to one of the deputy-chief wardens."

"I see." The logical component of his mind acknowledged the honor of such a position, but his emotional concerns lay elsewhere.

"So . . . do you wish to accept?"

He chewed on the inner part of his lip. "May I have some time to think it over?"

"Of course," said Thierry with a well-meaning smile. "Notice within the next few days would be preferable, but take some time to think about it."

"I should know by tomorrow," assured the guard in monotone. "Thank you, sir."

"Have a good evening, Javier. Enjoy your youth. It wouldn't last much longer."

The guard was convinced that his youth was at least one boot out the door. And he was only seventeen.

* * *

Javier was almost ashamed at hesitating at the offer, but his concerns were not unjustified. There was namely his _condition_ to consider. The extra time would place strain on him. And nighttime was his most vulnerable period. How much more discipline would he require to keep his needs in check?

He thought these thoughts and more as he made his way to his small flat which he shared with Favreau and Porcher, a law student who was always eager to discuss politics. Favreau was willing to oblige to a point; Javier would find ways to make himself unavailable for such discussions. Politics were fraught with motives and bargaining and strife that made human frailty and corruption all the more evident and insufferable. If Javier wanted to know about current events, he read the paper. Ergo, he read the paper infrequently.

There was only one reason he was willing to share a flat with Porcher, which happened to be the same primary reason he shared a flat with Favreau: they were rarely around. Even as a student, Porcher felt it necessary to work and think outside the confinements of a room, so he would leave and return with his pockets filled to the cuffs with essays and notes, of which he would carelessly dispose on or in his desk, then turn immediately around and go back out into the world. Favreau had a _belle_ with whom he spent most of his time, usually on the town or at her private apartment. Both men were a few years older than him and did not feel a particular obligation to invite him on their outings. Favreau occasionally asked if he wished to join him, usually with the promise of meeting a pretty _grisette_; Javier would refuse, and Favreau would not press the matter.

The arrangement was ideal for all. Javier needed the time to be alone, especially in the evening. Night was the only time when he could indulge a little. Despite what Favreau and Porcher believed, he _did_ go out on the town. He was careful of where he chose to go, which was usually the beach of Le Mourillon rather than the heart of the city. The residential population was less dense and fewer people were expected to be out at night. He gradually adjusted his habits to the urban setting, but some tweaking to his routine was called for. Access to the harbor proved most beneficial to his excursions, as the sea air and open sky helped counter the anxieties of the day.

He wondered at times if he should rebuke the relief he felt when he did this – the soothing sense of freedom that was, in truth, an illusion. He was still in Toulon, still living among humans and learning to be more like them, however much they frustrated him. No, there could be no harm in it. He did well to control himself the rest of the time. A small reward kept him from losing his mind.

Then mightn't he lose it now? If he accepted M. Thierry's offer, what would he do on those nights? The darkness would only make him restless. Could he adapt to further restraint if it meant moving up in his profession?

_Of course I can_, he thought has he came up to the apartment and withdrew his key. _I've come this far, have I not?_

That night he walked the waterfront of Le Mourillon on the Mediterranean, paws pressing on wet sand and pebbles, the warm salty air passing against his muzzle. He stared up at the black sky and the brilliant stars.

_Enjoy life a little more_. If this wasn't enjoying it, it was close enough for him.


	2. Chapter 2

Many thanks to Anon and AmZ for their reviews. In response to AmZ's review, that was my bad. I actually have no idea whose portrait they would have. The era of the French Revolution was still somewhat going on, and the suppoters of the Ancien Regime were few, so Louis XV or XVI portraits would probably be out. Perhaps a prison official would support the Directory, but I don't know what face to put to it. I suppose it doesn't really matter. I'll fix it at some point, but not right now.

Anyway. On with the show. Reviews would be nice.

* * *

_Toulon, around 1781_

Shadows. Those were the first images aside from his mother's face he remembered seeing. Shadows upon shadows bleeding across the floor and moving with a foreign power he could not yet understand. They frightened him at first. He would hop and scurry away so they did not touch him. Then his mother would snap at him or kick him. He quickly understood: those things are nothing to be feared. Shadows cannot hurt you. Feet can.

So he tried not to be afraid. That was the first challenge. What could he do to show he was not afraid? He decided to chase them away. That did not do much good. They could scale walls or slip through the bars his mother would prevent him from squeezing through. And even when he caught them, they seemed completely unhurt or upset by his paws. He would jump up and down, yipping and snarling and gnawing on the floor. He learned, after much tribulation, that such behavior only earned him more kicks. His feet didn't hurt the shadows. Hers hurt him. Lesson number two learned.

The next logical step took some time for the whelp to grasp: ignoring his tormentors. He did not learn this on his own. His mother yelled it at him one night in a typical fit of fatigue and frustration. "Just ignore them! Now shut up and go to sleep!" Another kick in the rear.

His young mind, as much as it struggled to understand the new command, was too awake and aware of the shapes moving around him, however untouchable. The most he could do, if not ignore them, was to lie still and watch them unerringly. His bright eyes followed and monitored them. He was amazed to find that despite his initial impressions, most of the shadows did not move as quickly as he thought. The shadows that did move often entered and exited the cell so quickly that he had mistaken and harassed other shadows as the ones that had already left. At two years of age, the whelp experienced shame at his foolishness. It gnawed at his insides, like a rat on a crumb of hard bread that would occasionally escape his jowls during meals. Although he did not think it in so many words, he promised that he would not do anything to make him feel this way again. Some years later, he amended the promise: should he ever do something to make him feel this way again, he would do everything in his power to ensure that he would not commit the same error.

As previously said, though, his young mind did not conceive these thoughts in exactly this manner. More than anything, his thoughts consisted of colors, shapes, smells, tastes, and sounds. Some sounds, most notably those from his mother, eventually formed into words, but there were other sounds whose meanings he learned to understand intuitively, and which everyone else ignored or failed to notice. Despite his other misgivings about his "special gifts", this particular talent of noticing and understanding what other people did not later gave him a sort of fiendish satisfaction (which of course he made certain never to temper with meanness).

As for the shadows, he became accustomed to them. He could never ignore them fully, but he slowly realized that he did not really want to. However terrifying they had appeared at first, they were his playmates. Every day he was learning new things about them. The most remarkable discovery was when he became capable of distinguishing the "bright" shadows from the darker ones. There were much fewer of them than the dark shadows, a fact which only further aroused his curiosity. When he placed a paw on a bright shadow, his paw would look brighter, too. But not in the same way his mother's hands or arms would look brighter when she happened to sit in the bright shadows. Her skin would glow with a warmth that would make the whelp want to crawl into her arms and never leave. She rarely let him, though, when they were in that place.

She did not carry him on their walks, either. A man with strange clothes and a hat he wanted to chew on like there was no tomorrow would give his mother a rope to tie around his neck and lead him around with, so that he could not go where he pleased. This restraint confused him at first, and he naturally struggled against it while his mother gripped the other end with an annoyed snarl. He did not understand the rope's function until one time when he tugged hard enough on the leash to make it slip through his mother's fingers. He immediately bolted down the hallway and was nearly trampled by a few more men in funny-looking outfits. The relish he felt at his apparent freedom made him run wildly through this wonderland of shadows and bars. Despite the new territory into which he now bounded, the bars and shadows maintained a consistency that kept him bold. He ran so far from the usual path the he soon became lost. No matter. He could find his own scent and follow it back. He proceeded until an oblivious guard let him slip past a heavy door into a hallway he would not enter again for many more years.

The thicker air and odd musk made his fur stand on end. What strange place had he stumbled into? Where was his mother? Why was she not chasing him and yelling at him?

The shadows in this place did not have a harmlessness the others had – not like the ones in his and his mother's cell. These cells, for one, were bigger and darker. Strange things moved behind them that his still developing eyes could not make out clearly. The things varied in size and proportion. As he walked down the middle of the grime-covered barrack, he felt dozens of eyes turning toward him. With the eyes came disturbing sounds. The things whistled and clicked their tongues.

"Look what the good Lord brought us!" one voice said raspingly.

"I've been dying for a good meal," guffawed another.

"Aw, it's cute. Come here, doggie. I got a treat for you."

He did not know from which shapes these voices were coming, but he didn't care to know. He had wandered too far. He should have let his mother hold the leash. He shivered and kept his head low, turned around and began to head back for the door.

He managed to go five steps before he felt a hard tug at his neck. He flew forward and landed on his side.

"Oh, don't go so soon!" said one of the voices from before. "Don't you want to play?"

A blood-chilling throng of laughs filled his ears as one of the shapes pulled on the rope. He could see the cell looming larger and larger and its stench becoming more unbearable.

_No!_ he yipped. He whined and grunted furiously. He howled for his mother, for _anyone_. The laughter continued as his hope for help diminished.

"Don't make a fuss now."

He looked up and saw something that resembled a man in a ruddy tunic, only his face was covered in fur and twisted in a gruesome smile. "I just want to play."

A powerful instinct suddenly overtook him. It was a voice of natural instruction that he never felt so strongly before, but he had no time to doubt or question it. As soon as the ugly creature's hand came within range, he buried his small fangs into it.

A deafening roared enveloped his ears as the man flapped his hand to shake him off.

"Little beast! Get it off!"

Other monstrous shapes came to the brute's aid. He let go and attempted to run once more. His captor, despite the injury, still had hold of the rope. He choked again.

"Not so fast! I oughtta teach you a lesson, you little shit!"

He tugged against the rope. It still had him. He had to get away or fight. The man-beasts came toward him quickly. In rash defiance, he faced them again and bared his teeth. He growled with impassioned self-preservation. Adrenaline rushed through his small body and roused every fiber and pore, ordering them to declare with unashamed joy his true nature. _Wolf! We are wolf! We will devour anyone who would try to destroy us!_

Then the most unexpected and most painful noise he ever heard sang through the barracks: a metallic clang. One of the guards had rushed in and swung his bludgeon against the bars with enough force to send the whole lot of vagrants running back. The man holding the rope dropped it to cover his ears. No words were wasted as he was scooped up by the guard and carried out by the ruff.

He still shook from the flood of adrenaline pumping through his veins, and did not begin to calm down until he returned to the cell. His mother was there, waiting with a sour expression. He gave no whimper of complaint as she grabbed him by the muzzle and gave it a shake. She stared directly into his eyes.

"_No_. Don't ever do that again! _No_! Understand?"

Then she shoved him into a corner and turned away. He acquiesced to the punishment and stared at the wall. The shadows unnerved him again. He was afraid again, which made him feel worse on another level: he had broken his promise. As penance, he sat in his corner without moving a muscle, reasserted his first vow and made a second one: to trust and obey the one holding his leash.

Although he would stare at them and contemplate their behavior, he and the shadows remained on uneasy terms.


	3. Chapter 3

Crap, I was so stuck on this chapter and I still don't think it sounds right. Mostly I need a better idea of how things operated on a prison galley in late 18th-century France. I want to shoot myself I'm so frustrated. Well, I'm getting this chapter over and done with and moving onto some other area of poor, abused Javert's life. I don't mean this Javert, I mean original!Javert who's probably sick and tired of fanfic writers coming up with all sorts of outrageous backstories for him.

* * *

_Toulon, 1796_

A full moon, Javier noticed as he chanced a look into the sky. Perfect. His first night on the new shift and it _had_ to be a full moon.

The only other guard present to take over his position at two o'clock was Richard, who was already tucked into the captain's quarters with a bottle of some _vin de table._ It could not be long before he succumbed to the blissful oblivion of sleep. Javier understood that there would be more guards coming to the night shift as soon as new recruits could be hired, so these patrols would not remain a two-man venture for long. Still, the more Javier thought it over as he began his stroll down the walkway, the more he began to consider the benefits of quiet, solitary patrol.

He had a much better handle on his 'sea legs' now than when he first started in the galleys, and the creaking of the wooden floorboards kept his sharp ears awake and alert. The smell was horrid as usual – the prisoners performed regular swabbing, but the stench of a hundred sweat-drenched bodies and their collective waste packed together in poorly-vented barracks always returned with a vengeance. The odious odor assaulted the his nostrils to the extent that Javier had to keep ducking his head into his jacket in order to take a breath. _A powerful sense of smell may be helpful for tracking escaped cons,_ he considered bitterly, _but God almighty, I'm ready to shoot the damn thing off._

Maybe the prisoners would benefit from a prison-funded group bath in the sea. In the shallows, of course, so the brutes wouldn't drown from their chains. They could have a handout to buy a hundred bars of soap, then throw the batch at the chain-gang and make certain they scrubbed themselves efficiently. Whatever the prisoners were doing now, it wasn't enough.

Gradually, thank Heaven, Javier's poor nose dulled itself against the reek of the barracks by the time he reached the end of the row. He found it easier to focus on his duty – that is, monitor the sometimes sleeping forms of the prisoners. He guarded the inmates against any type of inappropriate behavior, not just escape attempts. Most prisoners were too exhausted from the day's labor to attempt anything, but there were always a few who turned restlessly on their hard beds, festering behind bars and under the weight of separation from the outside world. That is not to say prisoners did not have glimpses into that world; many were sent to work in the Arsenal in the town or to perform labor in places that required travel by cart. The chained felons could watch houses and streets and faces pass by, all just beyond their reach.

Javier did not think these things with any pity for the criminals. These were mere observations he made with the repetition of routine.

The night deepened slowly, the hours slipping by as quietly as the current sloshing against the hull of the hulk. Javier's mind remained as awake as if it were daytime, and perhaps even more. He felt in his element at night, which seemed appropriate for someone considering law enforcement as a career. The youth had no plans set – he had in fact stumbled upon the occupation of prison guard by chance – but as he weighed his abilities against his limitations, the prospect of lawman seemed the only route within legal bounds that was both open to him and would utilize his powers. It was not a fruitful vocation, but it was an honest one. That was all he wanted – an occupation that would keep him mindful of his determination to remain in line, to not fall prey to his darker instincts, which he often felt bubbling beneath his façade.

Everything about him, his heritage and his upbringing, seemed set against him being a creature that embodied morality. His hatred for his nature in so many respects pressed him forward – if only he knew how much his nature gave him the strength to work against what he believed to be his 'inner beast'.

A distant bell from a clock tower chimed once as Javier paced across the walkway for the twenty-second time. A familiar itch suddenly crawled up his arms and worked down his back. He clenched his teeth. _Come on, just another hour. It's only a little longer_.

The muscles in his legs started to ache, shortly followed by those in his shoulders, neck and back. He still hadn't trained himself to carry his weight like this for so long. Relief usually came sooner; he had pushed himself tonight to see if he could manage.

_I shouldn't have waited_, he snarled at himself as another wave of gooseflesh passed through his skin. He tried rolling his shoulders to relieve some of the tension. The ache receded for a moment, then returned. He was going to be in agony all night if he didn't do something. What future damages might he incur from his poor judgment?

He rolled his shoulders again as he threw a general glance around him. Most of the prisoners appeared and sounded as if they were asleep. Javier's mind raced. His steps were taking him back toward the front of the ship where he could exit and take a moment to collect himself in the stairwell. He could not go far and let the prisoners entertain 'interesting' ideas. He would need only a moment . . .

Another stronger wave of pain flooded his limbs. It took all his will to keep walking and not groan. No. The symptoms were worsening faster than he had yet experienced. It may be he couldn't wait this out. Maybe he would have to do the unthinkable.

He allowed himself to groan mentally. His first night. Perhaps the full moon was a genuine omen.

Javier struggled to keep his paces as unhurried as possible so as not to alert any prisoners who still lay awake. He trained his attention on the clicking of his heels against the boards. Almost like the ticking of a clock. Steadily counting down until—

_You're not helping!_

He calmly looked back and forth between the two rows of cells and convicts. No one stirred suddenly or turned toward him. His pace had not alerted any of them. At least he had that on his side. More crawling flesh and sore, throbbing muscles overcame him before he reached the door to salvation. He found it remarkable how easily and quietly he opened and closed it. It didn't even slam. This single thought comforted him as he threw himself against the left wall. Instinct took hold of his fingers as he frantically undid his uniform. Everything would have to come off. This was the part that always irked him the most. For one, he did not want to endure the humiliation of being caught naked in a dark stairway when a hundred cloistered criminals lay just beyond the door behind him. Secondly, he did not want to find it necessary to replace his uniform should he lose it or tear it by accident mid-dressing. He stripped as quickly as he could, neatly bundling his clothes and weapons together. Lastly, he removed the ribbon in his hair. He had forgotten that a few times on other nights – not a fatal mistake, but a mortifying one nonetheless. A waif he encountered on the beach one ordinary evening, missing several teeth, saw him with the ribbon and was immediately enthralled. She called him Madame Chienne and asked many times if 'she' was looking for a party to go to. In truth, the gamine wanted to swipe the ribbon for herself, as if the snip of silk could compensate for the lack of dentiles.

The final fig leaf had been removed, but he would not allow natural urges to rule him yet. He eased himself into a crouching position before allowing his body to change. Had he ever attempted to explain to anyone how his transformations worked, his confidant might have been surprised to find that changing into his wolf form was not very difficult, and not even painful. What he knew would be impossible for anyone to understand was that he was not changing into a wolf; he was changing _back into _a wolf. It was the human façade that was more difficult to obtain and maintain. The process had become easier as the years passed, but time could not yet erase the difference between the changes. To become human for Javier was like getting dressing in the morning. He had to call to himself all that he did not naturally possess but gained through practice. In childhood it was impossible without instruction; in youth it became a burdensome but necessary habit. By the height of his prime it would probably be second nature. He certainly hoped it would be.

Changing the other way, however – that was where the danger lay. There existed the temptation to become lazy and haphazardous. He could not just undress and throw his garments on the floor, then stroll around his apartment or the city as bare as a newborn babe, as if no one were watching. What Javier feared most, though, was that he would forget himself once the leash was dropped, once the restraints of clothing, society and humanness fell away. He had nightmares about that.

His body issued a sigh of relief as bones and muscles rearranged themselves into their natural order. His poor tail, especially, was grateful to see the world again. He stretched as if awakening from a nap, flexing his jaw with a yawn, rolling his now more forward-thrusting neck, and leaning back so his forelegs could adjust themselves to a more comfortable position. The itching and aching had vanished.

Javier turned back to the door. This was a sticky situation to consider. On the one hand, he still had a duty to perform, despite his condition. Additionally, should he be gone for too long, any prisoners who were still awake might grow restless. On the other hand, could he really carry out his duty this way? No uniform? No cudgel? No pistol? No clicking boots to assure the inmates of his presence?

Then another part of his mind spoke up. _I don't have a pistol or cudgel, but I have claws and teeth. I have no uniform or boots, but my eyes and fangs might be enough to make them behave._

It was a strange and treacherous notion. What would the consequences be? Would the prisoners say something? Might Richard suspect something?

Once again, that other part of his mind spoke up. _We cannot worry about the consequences if we don't know what they are. Let us try it tonight and observe what happens. If it generates more harm than good, then we can stop. But if not . . ._

Javier, in spite of himself, broke into a smile. He stood on his hind legs, pushed on the latch with one paw (a latch instead of a knob – maybe another omen), and silently walked into the barracks.

He kept his ears pricked up. A few bodies turned as he began down the walkway. No gasps of surprise. No whistling or beckoning. As long as they did nothing, he acted as if all were normal.

It was different perspective from this height, no doubt about it. Although Javier could no longer see the prisoners that slept on the top bunks, he had an eye-level view of those on the bottom beds. He could take note of what they left lying on the floor, how they lay in their beds, and whose eyes were still open either staring at the ceiling or the wall.

Javier nearly completed the length of the walkway before he heard a gasp. He turned around in time to see a prisoner staring at him square in the eyes. Even in the dark Javier could see the man well; his face had utterly blanched. He did not sit up, nor even move as Javier feared he would upon seeing a large black wolf in the barracks. The prisoner instead remained still and stared in what must have been shock and terror. Maybe even wonder, too – how exactly does a wolf manage to slip onto a prison galley mooring over a mile offshore?

The young man – well, young wolf now – glared back with luminous grey eyes that reflected even the tiniest speckle of light, making them glow. He took one step toward the cell. The prisoner started to visibly quake. Satisfied, the wolf stealthily turned away and resumed his pacing. This continued until the clock stroke two, when the wolf casually pushed his way through the door and was not seen again for the rest of the night.

Javier did not have to attend his duties until the afternoon, so it was only then that he heard news of a strange phenomenon from last night. According to the guards on the night shift, including Javier, everything had gone on normally. One prisoner, however, claimed he saw a huge shadowy wolf stalking the barracks during the very early morning. When pressed, the prisoner did not relent on having seen the wolf but admitted to being tired at the time. The doctor concluded that the man did not get enough sleep, a problem which the guards should consider when attending their late-night duties. All the guards, including Javier, heeded the doctor's advice without objection.

"It was probably the full moon," said Favreau later with a chuckle.


	4. Chapter 4

This is probably going to get more and more bizarre as you go, so for those who manage to bear with me . . . congratulations. Seriously, you deserve a medal. Hopefully some of the Toulon prison stuff will be more believable as this continues. Yeah.

Oh, by the way, if anyone is the least bit curious, I looked at the Wikipedia article for black wolves. The results proved quite interesting. Apparently, according to the sources it cites, black wolves are very rare in France but are more numerous in more southern European countries (e.g. Spain). And according to some experts, black wolves don't differ much in size from grey wolves but tend to be physically stronger. And, ironically, they tend to be less aggressive and more likely to breed with domestic dogs. But that could require more verification from more scholarly sources. Still, food for thought.

Enjoy. Feedback is much appreciated (and needed).

* * *

_Toulon, 1784_

Every movement of her hand and mouth, every gesture and facial expression she made, he observed. While she thought him a dumb creature, his gaze secretly took note of each little action. From his darkest memories in that cell, she was his only anchor. As a gosling follows the example of its mother, so did he shadow her steps and mentally record what she did. He would trail her to market, to the stream where she washed clothes, and to other places in town for work or amusement. She usually tried to ignore him; sometimes she would order him to return home. Lacking comprehension of language, however, he could not obey. And like a child, he was reluctant to wander on his own beyond her presence, even if she did not provide active protection.

When they were at home, she paid him only the barest amount of attention. She put out food at mealtimes in a corner next to the dresser. She didn't want him near the table and have him beg for food. He had no toys, so he found random objects around the house to entertain him. He had the good fortune of finding a mouse once, but after he trapped it under his paw, he was more interested in sniffing it and watching how its whiskers twitched and its tail wiggled frantically. Its squeaks of distress, though intriguing at first, eventually persuaded him to let the poor rodent free. And, to his delight, releasing the mouse made it possible to chase and capture it again. An entire hour passed before his mother came over with the broom – first to shoo the mouse out the door, then to shoo the whelp into his blanket-covered corner.

Aside from his acute attentions to her, he also observed the other creatures that inhabited the outside world. Most of them were like her – fur-less, two-legged, and dressed in those alien garments that he could not imagine to be comfortable. Some other creatures, he came to realize, looked like him – four-legged and covered in different colored fur; they walked either beside, past, or beneath the feet of the taller creatures. Many took refuge in allies and doorways while some followed their masters to homes. For one reason or another, a quiet fear and aversion stirred in him when he saw them. They would stare as he followed his mother with various degrees of curiosity and apprehension. He didn't know why they watched him, and he couldn't bring himself to trust them.

In fact, he experienced a world of uneasiness when he went into town, although natural inquisitiveness made him thirst for understanding. As well as worrying about being trampled, he did not like drawing the gazes of the tall creatures. When they passed by without turning their eyes on him, he was content to stare at them to his heart's desire. When one decided to look at him, though, he quickly dodged beneath his mother's skirt.

His mother's abuses, though perhaps harsh to an observer, did not inspire the kind of fear these strangers did. They awoke a vague memory from his early days when others of this kind tried to attack him. The only ones who did not frighten him as much were the ones who wore those especially bizarre clothes – jackets of dark blue and white with three-cornered hats on top. One of them rescued him that day and returned him to his mother. Although his mother would shake him or push him when he irritated her, such treatment seemed nothing to the horrors he could begin to imagine these titans capable of inflicting on him.

It was only in observing them at a distance he felt other emotions besides fear for them. Sometimes, when his mother washed linens, he would catch a glimpse of girls who were either washing or bathing a little ways away. They exchanged laughs or played in the water and lounged on the shore when the weather was favorable. The slightest twinge of envy came over him when he saw boys about his age – though he did not know it – running through the streets with wheels or balls and making sport without regard for anyone else. Whenever the boys lost their toy, he wished he could chase after it and return it to them. He was shy, though, and still too wary of the species in general to approach them. Instead he would watch with ears erect and tail slightly wagging.

As he approached his fifth year, both he and his mother noticed that the corner which had been his bed was shrinking in size. His appetite increased, too, and somehow he found himself getting in his mother's way more and more. His body grew more restless, especially when he tried to settle down for a night's sleep. His fears of the outside world began to abate while his yearnings for experience and wider space strengthened. He could also start comprehending the behaviors of others around him, even of that species he could now called 'man'. Yes, words started to carry meaning. Gestures were matched with harsh commands or terse words from his mother. Language took seed in his developing brain; however, his attempts at uttering the words he could now understand proved in vain. Somehow his jaws and mouth did not obey what his mind ordered. In one of his attempts, his mother only heard an interminable stream of yelps, growls and whimpers that might have resembled words if the listener had enough imagination and patience. His mother had enough of the first but too little of the second. So she finally locked him in the closet again – her choice method of discipline.

So many feelings and instincts spoke to him at once. He could not begin to sort them out. Time passed as a constant struggle to grasp what he was undergoing and what it meant. He had no guide, not even a companion to understand his agony. Again and again he turned to his mother, and though the pained expression on his face could soften her heart now and then, she was equally helpless and unable to deal with the phenomenon.

The day on which both gained a better understanding of his condition came unexpectedly, as such days often do. At market that morning, she browsed through the day's selections of fruit when, in a moment of innocent thoughtless, she let a berry drop from her fingers. Alert but calm, the pup watched the berry bounce once and roll toward the feet of a boy about two years his junior. The child immediately reached for the morsel with a chubby hand, but another, larger hand reached down to stop him.

He watched, then, as the boy was lifted from the ground into the arms of she whom he logically concluded to be the child's mother. She gave the boy's hand a squeeze, told him that he shouldn't eat food off the ground, and gave him a kiss on the forehead. The epiphany that overtook the wolf pup's mind came like a storm. Here he witnessed a loving exchange between a mother and son. The resemblance between them was clear with their light eyes and curly hair. He suddenly observed the biological connection between them. Same eyes, same hair, same skin. Same species.

He whipped his head around. Were their other examples of this relationship? Yes. On the opposite side of the street stood another woman with a child in her arms. Next to her stood a man. The two bore enough differences in the smaller details that when he observed the child, he could see an amalgam of the varied features. He looked around again. Children with grown-ups. Children with children. What of the other creatures? Did they share the same natural bond with their human masters as these children did?

His young mind could only grasp the very tip of the branch that sprang from a tree he could not begin to see. But the connection came to him. There was a hierarchy – men stood over the other beasts. Children were small, too, but they looked enough like the grown-ups. In fact, if they were growing like him, would they someday turn into grown-ups?

And if so, where did that leave him? He thought of the woman who was raising him as if she were his mother; he had known no other. But they did not look at all alike. What would he turn into as he grew? Would he become, instead, like the animals that infested the streets, ate scraps from the gutter, and stared at him in that unsettling way?

To tread beneath men for the rest of his life . . . the more he thought of it, the more it disturbed him. He longed to be among those boys at play: to be their equal. He wanted his mother to see him as her son, and to hold him as that other mother held her boy. But was he? Was he her son?

He looked up at her and tried to say 'maman'. He worked his jowls and lips as best he could. Still they would not be obedient.

"Be quiet," she commanded in response to his odd-sounding yips and barks. She turned back down the street to indicate her wish to return home. Distressed and confused, he followed without another sound.

He made another attempt at communication when they reached the meager room that was their abode. She turned around sharply and put her finger to her lips. "I said enough! Or it's the closet again." She pointed to the hateful chamber for emphasis.

The whelp, who in truth had nearly grown to the size of the average housedog, had no choice but to continue turning these unhappy thoughts in his head. Morning turned to afternoon before she departed for 'work'. That is, to set up her usual station at the corner of the two main avenues in the town and lure various people to her table to read their cards and palms. For these excursions he recently resolved to remain at home – at least the walks to the market provided him with exercise. So again did he choose to stay in their flat, but it was a tortuous period. Again and again he tried to understand what his discovery meant. She _had_ to be his mother. Yet she, by all accounts, seemed to detest him for some reason. He had assumed for most of his life that she was simply that way. But he observed recently that while she was not very forward or friendly with other people during her outings, she was civil and courteous. She rarely raised her voice to another person unless seriously provoked. On the occasions he did come with her to her stall, she engaged the people with such energy and vivacity that she seemed a wholly different person. When she had to confront people, she never let a cross word pass her lips.

With just him, it seemed her deeper frustrations found an outlet for release. The broom had become an extension of her body and power; her eyes humbled him when he behaved unruly. He could never please her. And as much as her severity lowed him repeatedly, he could not yet despise her. He accepted her actions as natural and just. When he ran around the house wildly and disturbed her either in the midst of chores or a nap, and she rebuked him, he could understand why.

But now, after seeing that mother and son and realizing the connection between them that went beyond caretaker and charge . . . what was he to do? He could picture the dogs from the alleys with their lice-ridden fur and uncouth stares. No, he didn't want to turn into them. Panic rose in his chest. He thought of the way men would push them aside with their feet or chase them away with a cane. No, he didn't want to be the beasts. He didn't want to be afraid of the titans, however intimidating they were. He didn't want to hesitate in joining the other boys. He wanted to be able to endure men's stares and let them see that there was nothing shameful about him.

Perhaps . . . perhaps _she_ was ashamed of him. Perhaps that was the problem. If he _was_ her son, then something must be wrong with him. He did not look like her as sons should. He could not say if he was at fault, but it was certainly a reasonable cause for her displeasure.

With this new hypothesis in mind, he rose from the place where he had lain in thought and walked over the full-length mirror his mother kept next to the bed. He studied the face he beheld: long snout, flat nose, pointed ears, grey-blue eyes, and black fur. The fur color seemed the only feasible connection between himself and the woman he called his mother. His visage again reminded him of the dogs, only their eyes were dark and dull.

He snapped his shut. _No! I won't be like them! I want to be like Mother. I want to look like Mother!_

His throat tightened as his silent chant became a desperate plea. He thought he might cry, but his eyes did not work like humans' did. They merely ached. He lowered his body to the floor and pressed his chin into the wood.

_I want to look like Mother. I have to look like Mother. I have to . . . I have to . . ._

This mantra continued until twilight crept into the flat. There still lingered enough light to see without candles or lamps. Still, when he opened his eyes an hour later, he did not trust what he saw.

As he chanted, he had stretched his body in an awkward way, as if to break out of the prison that was his canine form. The movements had been gradual, though, so after an hour he felt that he hadn't moved that much. When he looked at himself, though, he could see that his forelegs were nearly perpendicular to the rest of him.

He gasped and stood up on all fours. His forelegs came in rather easily, although the muscles connecting the limbs to his shoulders from underneath hurt a little. He stared at his paws for several moments. What was going on? Why did they look strange? They still had fur and claws. They were still . . . no. They weren't. There weren't really like paws. They looked like . . . hands?

He then noticed his hindlegs felt strange, too. He bent his head forward and looked at them upside-down. Fur? Yes. Claws? Yes. Paws?

No. He saw five separate toes. And his knees were much more prominent. And his torso, or what he could see of it, was more clearly defined from his pelvis. His tail? No, that was still there. But what had happened to his limbs?

He lifted his head up again and gazed into the mirror. He gasped again. His snout! It was shorter! His ears were a bit smaller. He still had all his fur, but there clearly had been a change.

Then another thought came to him. Could it be he . . . he could try it, at least. He started to rock himself backward and forward on his new hands and feet until, with enough momentum, he could gently push himself from the floor and onto his haunches. Carefully, with a scientific attention to procedure, he attempted the feat and succeeded not in crouching on his haunches, but falling backwards and landing on his arse. And his tail. Which hurt. He groaned at the pain but quickly rolled himself over a little to relieve his tail of the pressure. Yes, indeed, he was sitting like a human. He looked in the mirror again and saw that, despite the fur, claws and fangs, his general anatomy had somehow morphed into that of a man.

His jaw hung open as he stared. How had he done it? Was this really possible? He returned to his thought from before. _Mother_. He wanted to look like his mother. Now, somehow, he was halfway there.

"Mother," he whispered. His mouth! It started to work, although the word was still muffled by teeth and stiff lips. He immediately shut his eyes and concentrated. Images of his mother and the other humans he encountered nearly every day in this town passed in front of him. He became more aware of the changes his body underwent. When he opened his eyes again, he saw a creature that nearly looked like a boy, but was still covered in quite a bit of fur. His ears were still pointed, his canines still sharp, and his claws were still too pointed and hard to pass as human nails. Yet everything else came closer and closer to resembling a human's features. He was so close. He could even see skin: dark like his mother's.

A sudden gasp sounded behind him. He whipped his head around to see his mother drop her purse. The bag of coins hit the floor with a loud clang, but neither person moved from their poses. Her hand covered her mouth while her eyes popped out and took in the grotesque visage. The wolf-boy, for his part, also stared in shock. For a minute neither spoke or budged.

The shock was unsurprising, he understood. But what would come after? Did she even know the child she saw? The wolfish features might have told her enough, but he couldn't be sure. After a brief internal debate, he dared to whisper with as clear diction as he could manage:

"_M-mère_."

She whispered from behind her mouth: "_Merde_."

* * *

I know this isn't clever, but I still like it. I tried to look up Romani swears, but that proved unsuccessful. So this is what I have for now.


	5. Chapter 5

I'm honestly not sure if this encounter would occur in a private space, as is written here, or in a general setting like you see in lots of modern prison movies. Since the prisoner in question has been deemed a dangerous man, I suppose officials would prefer to minimize opportunities for escape. But that all depends on the nature of the French prison system in the late 18th century. This is just guesswork. If anyone has suggestions, feel free to message me.

* * *

_Toulon, 1798_

He didn't quite know how he did it. As the door clanged behind the departing guard and he took a seat at the wooden table in the middle of the chamber, which sported a rotting spot the size of his fist in its middle, he felt that foreboding chill clamp his gut. He even entertained the idea that it was _he_ with fettered ankles being dragged to these dreaded appointments. The invisible chains were forged by his own hand, though. Why, then, could he not also unlock them?

The guard always took some time to return with his charge, which gave Javier time to prepare himself. The youth needed to invent an excuse for his visit today. He attempted the task for a moment, but soon sighed and started scratching his neck. _Good, Lord, don't let it be fleas again._

_Alez! Stop grooming yourself and concentrate!_

He blew his lips and shoved his hands into his pockets. He made a point never to keep any important items in his trousers – keys, money, small weapons. Instead he had developed the odd habit of filling his pockets with what any other man would call 'rubbish': pencil stubs, forsaken screws, bits of charcoal, pebbles with intriguing texture, and leaves or cloth scraps salvaged from the ground. He gathered these as specimens for olfactory analysis. At least if someone felt compelled to pilfer his person, the culprit would find the effort severely unrewarded. He also might think the young man a little insane, but Javier need not spare concern for that.

His fingers started to busy themselves with this eclectic collection while his mind turned to the scene that was about to unfold. He really had no reason to keep coming back. What questions were there left to ask? All right, there were a million. How many of those could he truthfully bring himself to ask? Not nearly as many. That is not to say they did not nag him night and day. Still, it was _him_ – that man. They could not exchange two words before a knot with the weight of a boulder formed in his chest, burning with almost alien anger. He could only attribute the sensation to instinct. He had possessed it, after all, for the majority of his life. Never mind the escape attempts – something in Javier forbade him to trust the man. His eyes, light and luminous, betrayed his wild emotions and dangerous power. His face and voice, in his attempts to be congenial, could not hide the quiet threat that lingered just beneath the surface. There was something uncontrollable, something that refused to be tamed and to submit to a moral law. Javier's blood churned from thinking on it.

Why this torture, then? He owed the man nothing.

A knowing, irritating voice answered: _he's the only one who can tell us anything_.

Any further argument on the voice's part was cut off as the door across the room clanged again and two figures entered. One was the guard from before. The other was a tall, broad-shouldered brute whose hair hung long and tangled in a black-gray mass, like ink-stained cobwebs. A beard covered his massive jaw. Another visitor acquainted with the regulations of the Bagne of Toulon would have been surprised at the prisoner's appearance, but not Javier. He already learned that even after shaving both scalp and chin, the barber found that prisoner 3165's hair would grow back to its previous length within two days. Eventually, after several more fruitless attempts, the poor man gave up. Now it became a distinguishing mark, an accessory for his vanity, which he enjoyed displaying to the admiration or envy of his inmates.

The man's entrance cued Javier to assume the usual pose: straightened back, arms folded across the chest, chin raised his high, and that dissatisfied glare through half-open eyes. The guard gave him a nod and escorted the prisoner to his seat across from the visitor. The convict, too, adopted a pose of sourness, his large brows coming together in a deep furrow. His manacled wrists and dirty fingers rested on the table as if he were crouching for the fatal pounce. Both men regarded each other with such anonymity that the guard serving as overseer had a mind to step into the farthest corner. This scene, frozen like in a painting, remained still for about a minute. An outside observer – perhaps even the unlucky guard – might have thought from a quick glance that it would soon come to words of burning anger or cold disdain. Even the fear of blows might have sprung to mind. The meeting felt like a keg ready to combust at the smallest spark.

Then the prisoner's expression changed. Javier and the guard watched as the beard-covered grimace turned into a toothsome smile. "Well . . . it's been some time, hey boy!"

His tone was that of a man who has just met a friend at the local pub. The crouched stance decreased in degrees as the convict stroked his beard with one hand and tapped the table with the meaty fingers of the other. "You've been staying out of trouble, yes?"

Javier, too, underwent a remarkable transformation. His back gracefully slumped while he extended his arms to the table and leaned on them. He also shifted his weight so that he sat on his left buttock more. They looked like two vagrants discussing their latest scheme. Yet in these seemingly more relaxed positions, the tension in the room was still undeniably present.

"Better than you, I gather," came the reply, slithering from Javier's tongue like a velvet snake.

The other man chuckled. "Well, what can you do? Birds have to fly . . ."

The youth rubbed his hands. "And this is what criminals do?"

The older man's smile wavered a little. He let a breath out through his cavernous nostrils. "I know at this point I can't convince you of anything. I wish I could explain, but . . . you're always _so _sure that I'm lying."

Both men regarded each other with their own set of cold, grey-blues eyes. Although he could have argued with the man all day on this topic, this wasn't what Javier wanted to talk about. He tried another subject. "Have you heard anything from Mother?"

He received a nod. "Business doesn't seem to be improving, but she's making do as best she can." The prisoner let a brief pause pass before tentatively continuing. "She sends you her love . . . it's a shame you haven't answered her letters in a while."

"She told you that?"

"Out of concern."

Javier raised his brows. "Really?"

"You may think you can take care of yourself without any help." For a moment, Javier wondered if the man would try to touch his wrist. He half-consciously pulled his arms toward himself. A passing flicker of an emotion he could not quite label shone in the prisoner's eyes. "You must realize you're still a pup. You don't have . . . you _shouldn't _face this alone."

Their voices had lowered enough so that the guard could not hear them clearly. It did not change matters much; Javier chanced a look over his shoulder to see the guard staring at a distant corner, completely oblivious to the conversation and its contents.

Javier looked back at the prisoner. "You haven't offered much in that department. How can you say you want to help me when you tell me next to nothing?"

"It's . . . very complicated." The man spread his hands. "There's too much to understand. We can start with whatever has troubled you recently. How's that sound?"

As the words issued from the convict, Javier was once more reminded of one of the primary questions he wanted to ask. He already knew what the answer would be; yet, somehow, just thinking it allowed the question to find a means of leaving his mind and launching itself to freedom when the young man opened his mouth.

"Why did this happen to me?"

A true frown formed this time. "I answered that question already: I don't know."

A fire in Javier's chest flared up. "How can you _not_ know?"

"I simply don't know. I have never heard this happen before."

Javier clenched his right fist. "All right, then. What can you tell me?"

"I can tell you that, sooner or later, you have to face what you are. Even with your . . .condition, you're still one of us."

"'Us'? There's an 'us'?"

"Of course. Someday, when I'm out of here, and if you're willing to come with me . . ."

"You'll never leave his place." His severe tone held a touch of desperation that accompanies the statement of a grim but indisputable fact.

The prisoner answered it with another grin, only more feral. "We'll see about that. I have all the time in the world, remember?"

Being reminded made Javier's other hand form a fist as well. "You said you intended to live by man's rules . . . that was your promise . . ."

"That was before I fully realized what weak, soft-headed creatures these humans are."

"What about Mother?"

The prisoner's tone, which had hardened and grown rough during the last bit of their discourse, suddenly softened again. "Your mother? Your mother is different."

"How?"

The man swallowed. "She isn't perfect, but she is . . . different. To me, at least."

"You still haven't explained how."

The older man folded his hands, took another look at the guard, then leaned closer to Javier. "Alez, you are far too young to understand yet. I hope, for your sake, you won't have to know for quite a while. About love, I mean."

Despite himself, Javier smiled.

"We wolves," the prisoner continued, "are monogamous by nature, but only when we meet the one who is meant to be our mate. Yes, you find that amusing – so did I when I was your age, and for a long time afterward. I won't pretend that I did not roam in many a pasture – oh, don't roll your eyes! – but when I met your mother, something in me changed. It was as if . . . as if I had not really known what love was before her."

Now Javier's curiosity was piqued. "Did you know it right away?"

The convicted barked a laugh. "Hardly! I had never met a more moralistic, stubborn, head-strong creature in my life! And I'm certain she thought me a monster from the first, even before she realized what I was. I cannot explain how everything happened – it does not matter, in any case. But you must realize, boy, that once you are infected with that unrelenting disease, you can never be cured. It is wonderful and awful in the same breath. More importantly, though, you must trust your heart to know if the love you feel is true." He paused again, taking a moment to inhale slowly. "I have never loved a woman the way I love your mother. Never have I looked at another and thought: if this world and all that live in it come to an end tomorrow, in a week, or in a hundred millennia, I will still know what God intended. As long as I have her."

Javier looked down at his hands. They did not fully open, but they were released enough to let him see the young calluses that marred his fingers and palm. He thought of the claws and fur hidden beneath this visage. It made him shudder. Even if he developed such feelings for someone, how could that person . . . how could _anyone_ . . . return those feelings when they inevitably learned of the horrible beast that masqueraded as a man. Albeit an honest man, or as honest as a wolf in man's clothing could be.

No. Honesty may be enough to walk among men without shame and a sense of inferiority. Infallibility and reliability may be enough to satisfy a sergeant or a chief inspector on paper, but those qualities could only take one so far in more intimate matters. He, even _he,_ could not bring himself to look on a four-legged beast and regard it with affection or those base desires he already found repulsive in others. To yearn for such relations with an animal, even his own species if any still existed, would be demeaning. To yearn for them with a human would be . . . in vain. Even if someone could feel sympathy for his nature, that emotion alone would block Javier from proceeding any farther. He would not stand for pity or charity. And that was, ultimately, what it would come to for him. He could not be able to face it day after day for the rest of his long, miserable life.

"What're you thinking about?" The prisoner picked at a soggy morsel between his teeth.

Javier, seeing that these thoughts would have to be filed for another day, tucked his hands under his arms. "Perhaps you were lucky. How do you know that happens to _all _our kind?"

"Ah, you'll find your soul-mate yet, my boy." The young man wished, for once, that he could share the older man's confidence. "As for now, there's plenty to be had for the time in between."

Javier could not restrain a scoff. "After all this tripe about true love and believing in God, you still encourage debauchery?"

"That is why I'm telling you to enjoy the world before your time comes. Like death, you never know when love will come for you. It'll hunt for you, and eventually it will claim you. So keep running while you've got the downwind advantage!" The prisoner gave a raucous laugh which drew the guard's attention. Upon being shaken from whatever daydream he had been engrossed in, the guard withdrew his pocket watch and glanced at it. "Your quarter-hour's up. Time to go, _le Gagnon_."

This appellation earned a quizzical look from Javier. "Le Gagnon?"

"Suits me, doesn't it?" The prisoner's smile widened even further, if that were possible. "No one dares tangle with _my_ claws." He followed the declaration with a wink.

The young man replied with another roll of the eyes. He did not wait for the two men to part before heading for the door by which he entered, knocking on the aging wood to alert the guard on the other side. His sharp ears, which heard more than anyone in the prison would have liked to imagine, caught the guard's address to the warden on duty at the gate between the private chamber and the barracks: "Returning Marcelo Javier, prisoner 3165, to his barrack, monsieur."

Although he did not like to think of it as a plea, Javier uttered it in his thoughts nonetheless: _Please, for Mother's sake, stay there this time_.

* * *

Marcelo's last line about his wife is loosely based off Jack Nicholson's line from the movie _Wolf_. You can check it out on IMDB. 'Gagnon' is the Old French word for "guard dog". In case you were curious.


	6. Chapter 6

Wow. Really long chapter this time. I hope I didn't try to squeeze in more than I can handle. There's more to come regarding this particular period in Javert's life, but it looks like it'll require more than one chapter to divulge. Do enjoy, all the same. And please review.

* * *

_Toulon to Brest, 1786_

"It itches." The boy tugged at his shirt. He slipped his fingers under the collar and sought to satisfy a patch of irritated flesh.

"Stop that," ordered his mother. She lightly slapped his wrist. "You're wearing the shirt. No more complaints, understand?"

"But I don't –"

"No. Complaints. It's important we look presentable."

He stared down at his shoes. The seams along the tops both frayed around the knuckles of his toes. Scuffs and wax drippings marked up the rest. How interesting that his mother had bought them only last week.

"Why?"

"Don't you want to look nice?"

The boy sighed. "Can't I look nice without the itchy shirt?"

Another light slap, this time on the crown. "They're all itchy to you. You have to grow used to them." Her rough hands, red and calloused from scrubbing floors and carrying buckets of fish guts when business was slow at her little corner, tucked his shirt into his trousers. Even when she managed to wash herself properly, he could always catch a whiff of those fish. He could see their torn bellies on the vendor's stand. Open bellies and dead eyes. He still failed to understand why the stench made him vacillate between revulsion and hunger. His tastes usually ran to the former, which was a comfort of sorts, but when he truthfully put the question to himself, he would have to say: yes, I could eat that. If I had to.

Fish and soap. That's what she smelled like. And that odd perfume she kept locked away in her simple bureau. He didn't care to look for it, but when she took it out to apply it to the skin that stretched like a sheer drum-skin over the stringy tendons of her neck, he would observe from afar how the scents came together in an amalgam of foulness, ferity, and cleanliness.

The deadly sea, where he did not venture beyond the innocent shallows.

The open fields, which he had seen only once when they visited a band of their people, though not their tribe, passing outside the city. She intended to uncover news about her family. It was a short visitation, and a fruitless one to boot, so before evening descended they returned to the flat. He wondered, on occasion, if he would ever smell wild grass or sun-drenched flowers again.

Then the foam in the bath – white, iridescent, and light enough to ascend to the ceiling. He tried to snatch them while she rigorously scrubbed him from head to paw.

The familiar, the mysterious and the forbidden. He did not know whether or hate them, love them, or to feeling anything for them. He did not doubt there was something in him that stirred in answer to her scent, but he could not define it. The medium of smell allowed him, at least, to assess at a safe distance. Within her reach, she became the dealer of blows. They were not as severe as before, he noticed, which indicated that he had improved himself. Now they were little slaps which he had to dodge or bear. They didn't hurt; he didn't enjoy them, either. Again, he hardly knew what to make of her actions toward him. He tried to convince himself many times that it did not matter what anything _meant_ – she was all he had.

Not that that stopped him from complaining.

"And these trousers don't fit right."

"You'll grow into them." She finished hiding and smoothing down the hem of the shirt. Her dark eyes cut across his face for a moment before she stood upright. "That'll do. Food and other clothes are all packed. I'll get our coats, and we'll be on our way." She headed towards the closet. Its door had been missing for a few months now. Ironically enough, she couldn't blame him for it.

"Will he know who I am?"

Her shoulders tensed. Slowly, pivoting her body only half way round, she looked back. "Why wouldn't he?"

Her son shrugged with helpless innocence. "We've never met. He doesn't know what I look like, and I don't know how he looks. Do we look alike at all?"

"In some ways," she answered quietly before closing the distance between herself and their coats. She took down a heavy, tired green jacket whose long sleeves she still had to roll for him. She took the liberty to don her own meager mantle before returning to the boy and helping him. His eyes, inquiring as ever, searched her face.

"What will we do when we get there?"

She breathed in through her slim nostrils. "We will say hello and tell him how we have been. You two will talk, of course. Get to know each other . . ."

She dropped her fingers with the rest of the sentence before finishing the bottom button.

He did not move to tend to it. He kept watching her, waiting for a sign of encouragement or reprimand. He wished he knew whether it was natural for him to ask such questions. A short time earlier, he was all too reluctant to press a query his mother preferred not to answer. However, his growing audacity, innate curiosity, and her slow gradation towards gentleness now began to open up to him more opportunities to test her temper and gauge which situations were best suitable for asking questions. Her silences were not always as impenetrable as he first led himself to believe. In this instance, for example, her face and form adopted a mood of pensiveness. She no longer looked at him but instead at the floor. She usually stared at a blank chunk of space when she wanted to think more clearly. He gave her a minute, and when she did not stir, he dared another step into unmapped territory.

"And after that? What will we do then?"

A few seconds passed before she looked up at him. Now he saw concern, which was better than anger, at least. A slight trace of that emotion clouded her features as well, but this anger was not the explosive sort that would end with an aching head or ears for him. A hundred worries filled those eyes which he could not identify, but he shared in her wordless anxiety.

"Then?" She sighed and did the final button. "Then we will go home. That's it."

"That's it?"

They locked eyes again. He swallowed but made no other sound. He did not need to ask a second time.

"That's all there can be for now." Her voice grew softer with each response, as if she wanted to crawl into herself and forget about these vexations. Another inhaled breath revived her a little. "We should be glad that we can see him at all. That must be enough. In the near future, maybe things will be . . . but there's no excuse to think on that now."

With bags in hand, which had to be light considering that most of the trip would be made on foot, they left their abode without further ceremony. They still took the mail coach for some miles, which served as both a form of shelter and a means of covering more miles in a day. She didn't want to venture too far at night unless it was unavoidably necessary. If they chose to spare their coins for the price of lodgings for one night, evenings along a desolate country road for the remainder of the journey would suffice. These roads, even as they made their way north, were flanked by woods or fields on at least one side. They would not have difficulty concealing themselves in either setting. Her son was still a small boy and understood when it was vital to be inconspicuous. He might question afterward the specific nature of the danger, but not when the threat was imminent. Thank goodness for that small mercy.

The boy was learning more and more of what was expected of him in terms of social behavior. He understood the usual civilities toward adults and figures of authority; he rarely, if ever, engaged in conversation or any other mode of interaction with children his age. They – the children – did not seem wary of him, but when they perceived his taciturn disposition, they decided that attempts at friendly chatter would be in vain.

There was something that earned his attention, however. He would stare at the landscape for miles as they overtook field after field, both cultivated and wild. The woods intrigued him, too, but the fields held a secret charm for him. When they were forced to abandon the coach for a few miles of walking, his mother spotted the energetic strides and the jerking of his head toward the open countryside. As sunlight began to disappear, he grew only more fidgety and excited, though he said and gestured nothing by volition. They came upon a bend in the road which proved utterly devoid of any other human presence. The sun, half-set behind a tree-speckled hill, was the only witness. She chewed the inside of her lip. This wasn't a good idea, but . . .

"Alez?"

"Yes?" His head turned sharply toward her. Had he done something wrong?

"How are you feeling?"

He started at this. "Fine. I'm not tired."

"I mean . . . do you . . . want to play?"

The boy stopped. She did, too. His eyes rounded as they stood in awkward silence. "You want me to play?"

"If you want to, you can for a little while."

He stared at her face – more wrinkled and weary than he realized – then threw a quick glance at the field to his left. "I may?"

"You've . . . been good. For the most part."

She could not be sure if it had been a passing breeze, but she thought she heard him gasp. It was quick and soft, almost negligible. He looked at her again. "You really mean it? No clothes?"

She gave him a dry half-smile. "Are you still complaining?"

To both their surprise, he broke out into a smile, too. Was it his first? It felt like it to him; his cheeks were tight yet they did not hurt. His teeth were not beautiful, but they practically shimmered in the evening light. His eyes also shone brighter.

He didn't dash off right away, even though his instincts begged him to. He walked with his mother to the side of the road so she could sit on the ground and keep an eye on their belongings. He removed his garments with consideration, and she took them from him, gathering them in her lap like a crumpled bundle of a snake's sloughed skin. Her fingers unconsciously gripped the cloth as she waited and watched. She did not observe the final change; she pretended to be occupied with shaking out and uncrinkling his clothes. In truth, any effort was thwarted when she soon forgot her chore and watched the dark furry form scamper through the tall bleached grass. She saw him jump, roll, skip – even _frolic_, she dared to think. Her hands sunk into the cradle of her calico skirt between her thighs. The smile was gone; her eyes were thoughtful again. This time her son did not notice.

* * *

Mother and child soon realized the advantages of allowing him to assume his natural form during their weeks of travel. For one, he covered more distance on four legs and did not tire as quickly. Secondly, his clothes lasted twice as long, which relieved her purse of at least one burden. She would be stricter with him among company, for the benefits of his other shape were rendered obsolete when they encountered a coach or wagon that was willing to bear them a ways. Despite continued restrictions, however, an unexpected pact had been made. In return for his increased freedom, the boy assumed the accessories of his mother's species without a fuss.

For some children, as the boy observed from time to time, travel could be cumbersome and tedious. Not so for him. Whether it was the gypsy blood or his sheltered upbringing, the prospect of new sites only served to make him enthused about their trek. His mother had disclosed only the vaguest details of the route they would take or what he should expect to see, so he felt bound to be as observant and alert as possible. They intercepted every size of city, town and hamlet one could imagine. Forests, pastures and farmland took turns in their dominion of the geography. He saw natural hills for the first time as they drew closer to their destination. The boy found objects of interest in both the setting and the human settlements. How remarkably changed these towns were as the sea disappeared completely – the scents of salt and fish all but vanished, and the perfume of grass and tilled earth overtook all others. More farmers and other peasants who tended to acre upon acre of fields substituted the fishermen and sailors.

Then, as their route took them further west toward La Rochelle, the sea's presence became evident again. But the smells from _this _body of water were not identical to those of home. The climate grew moist, tempestuous, and considerably less inviting. Granted there were days when the sun chose to grace them with its pleasant, almost Mediterranean warmth, but those days were not as frequent.

Re-acquaintance with the briny air nevertheless helped to ease the boy's mild case of homesickness. The countryside preceding their entrance into La Rochelle proved most picturesque, especially in Saintes where they took an afternoon to explore Les Arènes, an old Roman amphitheatre, and its surrounding environment. The boy immediately fell in love with the roughly assembled ancient stones and the structure they formed, a quarter submerged in the grassy terrain. He took centre stage in the basin of the theatre and seized another opportunity to surprise his mother by addressing an invisible audience. He removed the cap his mother bought him in the previous town, swept it dramatically before him and bowed deeply to the rows of long-empty seats.

"Madames and messeuirs," he announced with impressive projection, "this evening's performance will be a one-man act featuring Alezais _de los Arcanos_!" He approached a spot in the middle of the front stone bench and extended a hand. "Madame, may I borrow your handkerchief?"

He flicked his wrist, and lo and behold, a piece of cloth suddenly appeared in his hand. His mother could see that it was in fact an old rag he used, but she still felt compelled to sit down and train her attention on his impromptu performance.

The boy took a step back and held up the cloth. "Here you see an ordinary handkerchief. Nothing remarkable about it. But, in a moment, this ordinary hanky will travel from my hand to somewhere else in the theatre – and I guarantee you will not see it go from one to the other!"

He neatly folded the cloth and placed it in the palm of his left hand. His mother, moderately acquainted with such tricks, watched him carefully to see how he would pull it off.

After assuming a dramatic pose with his knees bent and elbows out, he loudly clapped his hands once and kept them together. Several seconds' suspense lingered in the theatre. The boy smiled. "Where do you think the handkerchief is now, my friends?"

A solemn silence answered him.

"What was that?" He directed his gaze to a row of seats in the back. "You think it's still in my hand?" He glanced at the front row. "Do you, too?" Then he turned to her. "What do you think?"

Though a bit startled by this direct address, she quickly adopted the air of an innocent spectator. "I have no idea. I suppose it is _not_ in your hand."

"Would you like to see for yourself?" He held out his clasped hands to her.

She furrowed her brow a bit. "Is it necessary for the trick?"

"Very much so." His eyes were suddenly serious.

She sighed, shook off the minor discomfort the boy's eyes had given her, and acquiesced. Slowly she pried his fingers apart only to find that both his palms were, indeed, empty. His grin from before returned, but a little wider. "Where is it now?"

"In your sleeves, perhaps?"

He pushed up his sleeves to revealed nothing but skinny, swarthy arms. "Nope."

"That is a mystery, then."

The boy gave her a scrutinizing look. "Perhaps it is in _your _sleeves."

"Really?" She held out her arms. "You'd better check, then."

He reached into the left sleeve first. His hand rummaged about before he withdrew and displayed a puzzled pout. "No, not there." Then he inspected the other sleeve. "Ah-ha!" Sure enough, he whipped out the rag with all the flare of a seasoned street magician and held it up for his mother to see.

She gave in to a smile. "Not bad, my boy. Can you do anything else?"

"Yes. But this time _you_ must make the handkerchief go somewhere."

Raising her eyebrows at this proposition, she warily took the cloth from him. "Should I hide it?"

"Hide it in your clothes. I won't peek." He turned around. Although still baffled, she also found herself intrigued and curious. When did her boy start exhibiting an interest in magic tricks and sleight of hand? He had visited her fortune-teller's stall often enough, but she could not imagine how much he learned from there. She considered these things as she stuffed the cloth into the waist of her skirt.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yes."

He turned back around. "Now, would you like to join me onstage?"

She let out a short, incredulous laugh. "How elaborate is this trick going to be?"

"Not too elaborate." There was a mischievous gleam in his gaze. He held out his hand to her, which after a second's reluctance she accepted and let herself be led into the middle of the arena. When he placed her in the proper position, he withdrew a standard pack of cards from his coat – another item she forgot he had on his person. He had requested the pack back in Toulouse, but she hardly thought of what he wanted it for except to amuse himself during bouts of boredom. Had she really been so blind?

He held out the cards to her in a fan. "Pick three."

She obeyed. One was the ten of spades, another the three of diamonds, and the last the King of clubs.

"Have you memorized them?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

"Then put them back." She returned the cards, which he in turn arranged into a stack and began to deal on the ground in three smaller piles. "It's important you remember your cards. The first two are instructions for what you must do next. Are you sure you remember them?"

She placed her hands on her hips. "I do."

"Good. For your first task, you must spin in a circle. Reading the cards from left to right, the number of the first one tells you how many times you must spin. If the card was red, you must spin to the right. If the card was black, then spin to the left. Don't tell me what your card was - just do as the card tells you."

This was incredible! She had never heard of such a trick. But she did as he wished, though she preferred to take her time with the spins so as to minimize dizziness. When she completed her task, the three piles were completed, and the boy gathered them up again into one stack to make another three piles. "Now what?"

"The number of the second card tells you how many times you must hop on one foot."

"Alez!"

He looked up. "What? That is how the trick is done."

She groaned. "I suppose red is for the right foot, and black is for the left?"

"Exactly."

_Good Lord_, she thought as she carried out the request. She felt like a performing monkey. The number, by good fortune, was smaller this round. "And now?"

Once more the boy collected the cards in his hands, and he went through them. "Now I will reveal to you your last card." He required only a few seconds to find and extract the King of clubs. "Is this it?"

Although she was slightly winded, his mother laughed and applauded. "Well done, my boy. But I won't recommend performing this trick on an elderly volunteer. They may collapse before you find their card."

The boy laughed as well. "I have sense, Maman. Shall we be on our way?"

She nearly agreed, but then remembered the earlier part of his performance. "What about the handkerchief?"

"The handkerchief?" He scratched his cheek. "The handker—oh, yes! Well, I suppose it's still wherever you hid it."

"What? You mean it wasn't part of the trick?"

"Oh, no, that was to distract you. You can take it out, now."

She sighed and reached for her hiding place. _The things you put me through . . . _She felt around for a moment. Her face dropped with concern. "It's not . . . what have you done with it?"

"What? Me?" His confusion appeared sincere. "I didn't take it."

She let her hands fall to her sides as she gave him a stern look. "Very cute. Of course you have it. Come on now. Don't keep us waiting."

Her son didn't answer but started to look around the theatre space. He inspected the ground, the seats – he even asked his mother to check her person again to be certain that the cloth hadn't simply moved around from her spinning and jumping. There was no sign of it.

"I can't believe this," he grumbled. He took off his hat and slapped his thigh with it.

His mother, without warning, erupted into laughter. "You little fiend!"

The rag was sitting on the boy's head in the likeness of a rooster's comb.

He discarded the perturbed façade, removed the cloth from his crown and took another low bow. His mother applauded him. "Where on earth did you learn all this?"

"From a fellow called Merlo – he does business a street over from your stall. I wandered near his stand once during one of your private sessions. After watching him do a few tricks like these, I asked him if he could teach me. I've visited him every other week since then."

His mother pursed her lips a little. "You should have told me."

The pleased light on the boy's eyes dimmed. "I didn't go far. And I wanted to surprise you once I had my act down pat."

The sky was turning orange, pink and indigo with the setting sun. The mother sighed and diverted her gaze to the vibrant swirls and streaks in the fiery heavens. "My head will have gone grey before we're back in Toulon."

A brief pause passed between them. "I didn't mean to worry you," the boy said at last.

Her swallow felt dry and sore. "I know."


End file.
